


Footprints in the Dirt

by thewildwilds



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Gen, Gift Fic, Kuzupeko - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 00:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14414175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/pseuds/thewildwilds
Summary: It’s a gamble whether it’ll be worth it or not, but they’re both willing to risk it, for a chance to stake their claim on some artifacts from the Old Ones.





	Footprints in the Dirt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunbrights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbrights/gifts).



> For @sunbrights' absolutely amazing Horizon: Zero Dawn AU, which you can find [here](https://sunbrights.tumblr.com/tagged/au%3A-hzd). I _highly_ recommend checking it out if you haven't already, it's a good time!

They trek for hours just to reach the damn place. It’s miles of endless valleys and climbing ridges, all on foot. She doesn’t make it easy. She urges them to push forward, even when his feet are killing him. She wonders out loud if his info is any good, or if he just got swindled out of four hundred shards. She complains about them needing to take the long way around the mountainside, but it’s not his fault he can’t climb all over the place like some goddamn insect.

He bears with it… as much as he can tolerate, at least. It’s a gamble whether it’ll be worth it or not, but they’re both willing to risk it, for a chance to stake their claim on some artifacts from the Old Ones.

They know they’ve made it by the smell before the sight. The place _reeks,_ just like the trader said, like old burning wood, except there are no fires in sight. It’s a lingering, acrid smell. Even the Nora pinches her nose in disgust.

They crest the ridge, and he spots the gateway in the grass: an old, rusted hatch, overgrown with ferns and sprawling ivy. Apparently, it will lead to some cavern with promises of all sorts of treasure. That was accurate, as far as he can tell.

Incidentally, it means the rest of his information was accurate too: the whole place is littered with Sawtooth dens.

They prowl across the grass, dozens of them, wandering the trails, investigating high ridges. That’s probably most of the reason why there’s a whole cache of artifacts left untouched and unclaimed. He doesn’t know what any of it is, or what it even looks like, but he knows it’ll fetch a good sum.

If they can get to it. That’s what _she’s_ here for.

She insists they wait, until she can track their prowling patterns. It’s not quick. She just sits there and stares, unblinking, while he tries not to fall asleep. One would think that’d be hard to do, what, with a dozen Sawtooths _this_ close to gnawing his face off, but she makes it pretty damn manageable.

She shakes his shoulder when she’s ready. He checks. There’s only two Sawtooths left prowling around. It’s their best window.

“All right, here’s the deal: you go in and rough up those Sawtooths a bit. While they’re distracted, I’ll try to get into the cavern.”

“So I do all the work,” she says, “while you make off with the spoils?”

He grins. “Put it like that and I sound like an asshole.”

She shrugs.

“Look. Somebody needs to open the hatch while you’re off wrestling with those hunks of metal. See that?” He points to the rusted wheel on the hatch. “ _That’s_ gonna take some time to open, and it’ll probably make a shit ton of noise on top of it. I’d rather not wait until the rest of the den lines up for their turn.”

“Why can’t I kill them first, and then we’ll _both_ open the hatch.”

“We’ve already wasted an hour so _you_ could sit and watch them stroll around. We’re never gonna get anywhere unless we just go for it.” Her expression doesn’t change. “Quit _worrying_ so much. I’ll be right behind you.”

“That’s not reassuring.” But she picks up her spear and bow regardless. He’s amazed at how easily she melts into the brush, even though she’s only a few feet away. She doesn’t move. He wonders if she’s even breathing. It’s the same sort of calculated patience that allows her to just sit and track whole packs of machines without tiring.

When one of the Sawtooths edges close enough, she pops out of the grass and jams her spear into the open gap in its underbelly.

It roars, a chorus of whirring gears and vibrating metal. It alerts the other Sawtooth further down the plain; it swings its head around, searchlights blinking from blue to bright red. They both give chase, pouncing and snarling, but she darts all around with deft moves and quick feet. She never slows, never gives them enough time for both to converge on her. When she spots an opportunity, she nocks and releases three arrows in quick succession, chipping away at the chunks of white metal on its hind legs.

Right. Back to business. She can’t keep this up all day, and he’s invested in her wellbeing, in the sense that he’s next on the menu if she goes down.

He cuts through the grass, crouched low to the ground, in case he captures any unwanted attention, but neither of the Sawtooths pay him any mind. She’s doing her job at least.

The hatch is way bigger up close than he thought it would be. It doesn’t matter. He has to do _his_ job. He wipes his sweaty palms on his sleeves and grips the wheel.

It turns the tiniest bit, and then it catches, on rust, or vines, or maybe something else. He keeps trying, teeth clenched, with as much strength as he can muster, and even then, the wheel only turns the smallest fraction at a time. (The metal squeals so loud it’d be impossible to ignore, but when he looks over his shoulder, he sees both machines are still preoccupied.) It’s a snail’s pace. He has to stop every so often to wipe the sweat from his palms again.

After what feels like ages, some mechanism in the door makes a loud, booming click.

He checks over his shoulder again. She’s managed to take down one of the Sawtooths, its carcass sparking in the dirt, and now she’s grappling with the other, her spear caught within the serrated spikes of its jaws. It thrashes about while she tries to keep her footing, but it overpowers her and shoves her back against a rocky boulder. She grunts. She struggles. With a twist of her shoulders, she finds the strength to push the Sawtooth back so she can regain some ground.

He hurries back to work. He yanks at just the wheel, at first, because it’s the only thing he can actually grab, but when the hatch opens wide enough for his fingers, he uses the lip of the hatch for leverage instead.

“Come on, you piece of shit, _open.”_

He puts his whole weight into it. His heels slide around in the dirt just trying to get a hold, and the groaning squeak of rusted metal grates painfully in his ears. He readjusts, plants both feet wide, and heaves. Finally, _finally,_ the hatch creaks open, enough for him to squirm through.

“Hey! I got it!” he yells through the crack. His voice echoes all through the cavern. “Come on, come on! Let’s go!”

He doesn’t have to repeat himself. She wastes no time. She darts straight for him, the Sawtooth hot on her heels. He scrambles out of the way so she can duck through, but just as he starts to reseal it, the Sawtooth shoves its head into the gap, roaring and snapping. It thrusts one fractured claw through and flails at them, frenzied and wild, metal shrieking against whatever it can reach.

“Get _rid_ of it!”

It’s too close for her to use anything against it. She risks limbs and bare hands just trying to shove it out. It snaps and claws at her every chance it gets, and he’s amazed she doesn’t lose a few fingers in the scuffle.

She kicks it with the bottom of her boot, once, twice, right in the face, and then one great, big heave that sends it back far enough for him to yank the hatch one last time.

It shuts with a resounding _thud._

The Sawtooth still tries, on the other side. It scrapes and claws at the metal, before it seems to recognize otherwise and moves on.

“See? Easy.”

She levels him with a look.

They wander, down damp corridors and overgrown paths. Scant rays of light still manage to peek into the cavern, through holes and cracks and slats. The smell is marginally better inside than it was outside, though only because it’s overpowered by the scent of rotting metal and stagnant water. The place is filled with centuries of broken contraptions, all worthless. They still take the time to inspect every crevice though, just in case. They’ve traveled too far and worked too hard not to. He figures they’ll find what they’re looking for when they see it. (Or, she’s right, and they’ll find fuck-all.)

(A prickle of curiosity niggles at the back of his brain. He wants to know what this place looked like when it was new and full of life. That’s not why they’re here.)

They reach a small room at the end of a corridor, and it is scattered with shelves of colorful artifacts.

He drops his pack and approaches a shelf. They’re all small, cylindrical, but shallow. He picks one up. There are three even indentations in the rim, too precise to be chips or damage. It’s pale green, and smooth to the touch, where time and the elements haven’t eroded the earthenware.

They’re too simple for him to be truly amazed, but they’re still interesting, in their own way.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Beats me.”

She approaches a shelf too, warily, and cups one of the artifacts between both hands.

“For eating?”

“Maybe. Looks a little small though.” He traces his thumb over an indentation. It reeks of the same stuff the dirt outside does. Maybe this is where the smell was coming from, or maybe it’s just the lingering remnants of something long passed.

Either way, it works out. He could spin a good story for it; say it’s an herbal vessel for sacred rituals. He knows at least two researchers in Meridian who will salivate over just the colors alone.

She inspects the one in her hands closer, longer than she needs to. She smooths her thumb over the curve of the inner bowl. It’s made of a clear material, like glass, but hardier. When she holds it up to the light, it shines like frosted ice.

“You wanna keep that one?” he asks.

She looks at him.

“It’s fine. The rest of them more than make up for the money I spent getting here. I can spare at least one.” He shrugs. “Consider it part of your share.”

She snorts, but there isn’t a mean edge to it like he’s used to. “You’ll take it out of my share, you mean.”

“Hey,” he says, with a crooked smile. “I’m being generous for once. Take it or leave it.”

She takes it. She tucks it away carefully into her satchel. “Thank you,” she says.

“Yeah. Sure.”

He packs up the rest, all the ones in the best condition he can find. He had travelled light, for an opportunity like this, and it’s about to pay off. When they leave the cavern, the second Sawtooth is nowhere in sight. He thinks it probably got bored and gave up the chase. She tells him machines don’t get bored, but she agrees anyway.

They hang back so he can strip her Sawtooth kill for parts. No use letting it go to waste, and it benefits them both. She says the rest of the den won’t loop back around for another handful of minutes. Once he finishes up, they can make it to the nearest lodge by nightfall.

He takes to it with a knife, popping wires and stripping metal, while she keeps watch. A lot of it is salvageable, but she sure did a number on it. He can see all the scrapes and scratches, and all the broken little shards of what’s left of her arrows. He turns his attention back to the parts that are still worth something. Bits of wire, chunks of metal, pistons, springs…

“Are you done?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Give me a minute,” he says, jiggling his knife back and forth through a particularly stiff joint. “This is intricate stuff, here, not every day I get to salvage a Sawtooth. Fuel canisters are shot to hell, though. Couldn’t you have been at least a _little_ more careful? I’m trying to make a living, here.”

He expects her to snipe back at him, at the very least, but all he hears is her feet sliding against dirt; he thinks he may have irritated her. “You’ll want to wrap it up now.”

“I said _give me a minute.”_

“You have ten seconds.”

He looks up. In the distance, he spots four Sawtooths approaching, and _fast,_ their eyes bright red and angry. Too many. _Way_ too many at once. He looks up at her; it seems she agrees.

“Go?”

_“Go.”_

He grabs his pack and runs.

She’s right at his heels. The pounding, trampling of feet behind them makes his heart leap into his throat. He won’t risk looking back to see how close they are, but he knows a Sawtooth could easily outrun him. “I thought you said they wouldn’t be back yet!”

“I was wrong.”

 _Goddammit._ He can’t even fuckin’ _gloat_ if he’s _dead._

His pack jangles against his side. He’s not made to run with all this. For one panicked, irrational second he worries about the condition of the artifacts they’d spent all day hunting, but he’d much rather make it out _alive_ than anything else.

There’s a falloff ahead, with no other discernible path. They climbed this ridge a few hours ago. He’s knows it’s a straight drop down from here.

“Hey!” he shouts. “Nora!” His lungs burn. “If you got any bright ideas, now would be a _great_ time to hear them!”

 _“Just keep running,”_ she hisses. “Straight ahead. I’m right behind you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

She doesn’t answer and she doesn’t try to veer him any other way. The cliff edge creeps closer and closer, and there’s no other way around it.

“Nora!”

_“Keep running.”_

And it’s stupid. It’s totally senseless, but he does it. He doesn’t slow, even when the logical part of his brain screams at him to turn back around. He keeps straight ahead, blindly, because he has no other option than to trust her.

_“Jump!”_

He only sees her out of the corner of his eye, at the last second. She darts ahead of him, loops one arm around his waist, and leaps. His arms circle her neck, automatically. They fall _fast,_ the wind whistling in his ears and his stomach doing somersaults. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites back a scream, even when she hisses trying to keep hold of the rope with just one hand.

They hit the ground, rough and unsteady, and he tightens his grip just to keep himself stable.

He has to take a moment, to just _be,_ because if he doesn’t, it feels like he might pass out. “By the Sun,” he pants against her shoulder. “Are we dead?”

She shifts beneath him, breathing unsteady. “Not today.”

He looks back up. The pack snarls at them from above, but the searchlights swing away, and then disappear altogether. “They won’t follow?”

“No.”

He lets himself breathe, his heart still hammering in his chest. Her furs tickle his cheek. She still has one arm around his middle.

He unwinds himself from her neck. “Hey,” he murmurs, clearing his throat. “You can let go now.”

She drops her arm, without protest.

He dusts off his knees, and takes three steps back. Just so they can have some space. “Well that was a shitshow.”

“It wasn’t entirely pointless.” She taps his pack with the end of her spear.

He checks, just to be sure. They’re still there, none of them broken or worse-for-wear than when they found them.

“Right.” He checks the sky. The sun is starting to dip behind the mountains. “It’ll be dark soon.” He shoulders his pack. “C’mon. We’re not exactly on the path anymore. We’re better off setting up camp for the night. Y’know. _Away_ from all the killer machines.”

She looks back up the cliff, and then at him. “All right,” she says. “I suppose that’s enough fun for one day.”

He snorts, but he doesn’t deign her with another response.

She doesn’t hassle him once on the way back.


End file.
